


Green places

by Splinter



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Movie(s), Vaginal Sex, vuvalini blankets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-30
Updated: 2016-04-30
Packaged: 2018-06-05 13:31:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6706324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splinter/pseuds/Splinter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the gardens, after dark.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Green places

**Author's Note:**

> The idea for this came from [this wonderful artwork by Youkai Yume](http://youkaiyume.tumblr.com/post/132669057113/youkaiyume-probably-not-what-you-had-in-mind%20), and I was [also thinking of this one](http://youkaiyume.tumblr.com/post/142983106323/the-green-place-for-fadagaski-who-prompted-me), both prompted by Fadagaski. Some things came out differently in writing the story, but this was what I had in mind. 
> 
> Gilly and Mel are the Vuvalini played by Gillian Jones and Melita Jurisic.
> 
> I'm at [lurkinghistoric](http://lurkinghistoric.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.

There’s a story circle tonight, an informal one. It’s been a while since their smaller group – Furiosa, Max, the former wives, the Vuvalini – have had time all together, so Gilly suggests the grassy clearing, after dinner.

The grass is recent. They can’t waste fertile ground on anything like the lawns the Vuvalini remember from the old days, but lately green has appeared in the thin, rocky soil between the olive trees, between bushes that are newly lush. Maybe they’ll find more seeds that like this soil, or enrich it enough to support crops. In the meantime, it’s a popular spot for sitting out in the evenings.

Though it’s a sheltered space, holding on to its warmth well after sundown, it’s as well to have blankets. Max brings a couple to where Furiosa is sitting, under the biggest tree. She’s taken her arm off in preparation for a relaxed evening, her nub bare and her shirt loose. Their fingers touch when he gives her the blanket. Before she knows it, she’s smiling at him. He doesn’t exactly smile back: he’s just looking at her, close and soft, lips parted. His fingers stay warm on hers as he uses his other hand to spread the wrap over her knees, keeping his eyes on her face. A little shiver goes through her. 

At that, he moves behind her, sitting so that she’s cradled between his legs. He has the other blanket over his shoulders, pulling it forward to wrap snugly around both of them. He hardly ever misreads her reactions; she hadn’t shivered from cold. Then his arm slides around her waist, under the blanket, his hand finding the finger’s width of bare skin at the edge of her shirt. His lips just brush the back of her neck, above the brand.

“Honestly, you’re like teenagers,” says Cheedo, with all the maturity of six thousand days. 

“What’s a teenager?” asks Toast, knowing that Cheedo will have read it in a wordburger.

“A young person,” Mel says. “Five, six, seven thousand days.”

“What’s it to do with you, then?” Toast asks Max, bluntly. “You’re much older than that.” Max nods, leaves his chin resting on Furiosa’s shoulder. “So why did –” 

Cheedo’s getting ruffled. It’s easy to forget how young she is, except when she tries too hard to be sophisticated. Furiosa hadn’t recognised the word either, but she knows Cheedo wasn’t talking about age. She suspects it has something to do with how aware she is of Max at her back, the slight scratch of stubble against her neck, his hand spread warm over her belly. She knows that, if she tried to articulate any of that, Cheedo wouldn’t be the only one who was flustered. He’s not doing anything, they’re not doing anything, but this tiny touch feels nakedly intimate. Her heart is racing.

“S’an old world joke,” says Max, helpfully, distracting Toast’s attention. When he speaks, Furiosa can feel the rumble in his chest through her back. “Used to blame kids for everything. Hogging all the blankets.”

“That they did,” remembers Mel, with some feeling. “Cheedo, are you cold?” She looks around for more wraps, helping the subject drop. Furiosa offers the blanket from her knees: they don’t need two. The conversation drifts to weaving patterns, and then to other stories. 

Furiosa does join in – answering some of the younger women’s questions, describing one of her early adventures with Valkyrie. But tonight she mostly listens, held warm against Max’s chest. She remembers hearing this kind of talk as a child, voices and lantern light and the smell of green. She’s drifting between drowsiness and arousal, relaxed by familiar stories but nudged to alertness by the scent of his skin, the touch of his fingers at her waist. It’s like stitching together the different parts of her life, patching over the gash left by seven thousand days. She finds tears welling up at another story about Valkyrie, a funny memory of how stubborn she could be. She doesn’t fight it, and tonight it doesn’t hurt. 

Max is more forthcoming than usual, she thinks: he asks a question or two, and she feels his shake of laughter at the ruder stories. They all stay later than they meant, one tale leading to another. Eventually the conversation lulls, and people start to gather themselves reluctantly for bed. Max had brought the lantern up, so he and Furiosa are the last to leave, collecting blankets and checking for cups left in the grass. 

“What did she mean?” Furiosa asks. “About teenagers. It wasn’t about age.” It’s odd, the way Max’s memories can seem as old or older than the Many Mothers’. Max crosses to her, dropping another blanket on the pile. He’s careful to approach from the front, not to move too suddenly. There’s nothing cautious about the way he kisses her.

“Meant I can’t keep my hands off you,” he says, rough and deep. His mouth is hot on her neck, and she can feel her body responding to his voice and touch and scent, a downward rush of blood that leaves her wet and twitching. This isn’t something Furiosa remembers from being six thousand days old; there hadn’t been time or reason for this wash of need and want. She presses into him, tilting his head so she can kiss those very full lips. He growls when she nips at him, hands sliding up under her shirt.

It’s not literally true. However much she loves touching him, it’s something they usually keep behind her barred bedroom door, safe from interruption or attack. Max’s almost-kiss to her neck had been unusual, and not really visible, hidden by the blanket and the shadows. The idea that they’d just jump on each other, in an unguarded space like this one, sends a shocked little thrill through her. She slips her own hand to his waist, burrows through clothing to find skin. 

She’s amazed when he starts to take his jacket off. He’s wary about nakedness, which doesn’t mean he dislikes it. She’d undressed him two nights ago, kissing wherever fabric slipped off him, and her quiet fool had come close to babbling. But out here, in the gardens? It’s one of the safest places in the Citadel, but it’s still the open air, not exactly a defended position. He drops his precious jacket on the grass without even looking, his mouth on her collarbone, intent on undoing her trousers.

It’s like a switch thrown: her own caution burns up and vanishes. She’s pushing up his shirt, ducking her head under before it’s off him, licking across his chest to bite at his nipple, hand and nub stroking. 

She grumbles when he pulls away, dropping to his knees, so he tugs her down beside him. They end up in a heap on the grass, Max kissing her thighs as he fumbles with the fastenings on her boots. He finally gets them loose enough to yank off with her trousers, gets to work on his own clothes. She pulls him up to kiss him, wanting more contact and missing his body heat. Her nipples are hard and aching, from cold as well as arousal; it’s hours since the sun set. Max yelps when she presses her cold nose to his warm neck. She squirms to find a better position, a tree root digging into her hip. He catches her eye and they both laugh, rueful. 

“Indoors?” Furiosa offers, disappointed. She’d wanted him to fuck her here in the garden, grass under her back and the scent of leaves around her. She’d just imagined it softer and warmer.

“Wait,” he tells her, kissing the tip of her nose. He sits up, grabbing a blanket and draping it around his shoulders. He beckons her to climb on top, wrapping the cloth around her. It doesn’t quite cover them both, but he finds a second blanket, pulls it up over her shoulders. The wool is scratchy against her back and thighs, but it’s like being cocooned inside a small tent, warm and close. There’s an awkward flurry when Max tries to get his hands back inside, back to her skin, without dislodging any of the layers. He kisses her nose again, pulling her closer, fingers slipping between her legs. She rests her forehead against his as he strokes her, held close in this small space, surrounded by green.

She needs a moment after she comes, her hand in his hair. Then she nudges him, pushing her body up against his, feeling his cock hard and very hot against her belly. He slicks himself with his wet hand, then, with a bit of shuffling, gets both hands to her thighs, lifting her up. She sinks down slow and deliberate, a wet slide and stretch, ending with a decisive thrust that makes him grunt. He goes hungry again as she grips him, his hands stroking and his mouth back on her neck. He pushes up with his hips, impatient for her to start moving. The grass is cool under her knees as she thrusts down hard, finding the right angle and enjoying the little noises she’s getting out of him.

He wraps one arm tight around her, moving his other hand back to her clit. There’s a breeze stirring the branches overhead, bringing a scent of earth. He ducks his head to her breast, lips and tongue and a scratch of stubble on her nipple. She gulps, realising he’s doing it on purpose, deliberately coaxing more sounds out of her. She can’t stop herself, doesn’t want to, grinding and panting and moaning outright, recklessly loud in the night air. He’s coming too, twitching under her, clutching at her waist. She doesn’t know if the wind is covering the sound, or carrying it up through the rustling leaves. 

When they slip messily apart, the second blanket falls off, leaving her back exposed. She leans against him, thighs aching and body trembling, not from cold. Max reaches for the blanket, pulling in a handful of cloth that turns out to include his jacket. He wraps it around her, kissing under her jaw as he turns up the collar. His hands stroke her back as he tucks the blanket around her shoulders. She knows they should go in to bed, but she doesn’t want to, not just yet. 

Max is trying to put his shirt back on without actually leaving the warmth of the blanket. She huffs with laughter and helps him tug down the hem, leaving her hand tucked inside. He gives her a look.

“You doing that to keep warm?” When she nods, he pounces on her, scooping her up in a bear hug of rumpled fabric and kisses and bare, flushed skin. 

After dawn, Mel and Cheedo find them asleep, curled up half-dressed in a nest of blankets. Furiosa is still wearing Max’s jacket, her head resting on his arm. He’s wrapped close around her, his face pressed to her neck. Mel and Cheedo exchange a glance, befitting their own status as sensible adults, and choose a different route to the other side of the gardens.


End file.
